Part Two
Such documents as treaties and alliances are nothing but mortal conventions, meant to bind human beings under the law of the written word, for mortals have great faith and believe themselves safe behind the shield of carefully signed papers.
Nations know better.
Stronger than any writ of conquest that the mortals could devise stands the physical bond between the nations incarnate. Ingrained in their innate instinct since the beginning of time, the nations know that nothing can keep countries united until their personifications had laid together, be it as equal allies or as conqueror and conquest, for they are the true soul of the land and people and without this act any alliance would shatter like frail glass and the vanquished would rebel at the slightest chance.
Having lived for centuries as a conquered nation, Lukas was well aware of what the newly signed treaty implied and dreaded that moment like never before. In the long-forgotten times when his will had still been his own he had shared his bed readily with both the Swede and the Dane and he was no stranger to Berwald's body, but now the thought of the Swede's touch repulsed him. He had been adverse to their union from the very beginning and every fiber of his being was screaming loudly against the final deed that would deprive his country of the last shred of independence, yet he could not bear to demean himself by pleading with Berwald not to go through. He had no real hope that the stronger nation would comply for too much was at stake, too much power and wounded feelings and pride, too much past, and for a few fleeting moments Lukas wondered if the detached cruelty of a stranger might be easier to endure than the overbearing mercy of an once-friend, now-foe.
Turning his dark thoughts over and over in his mind, Lukas kept moving on while his escort reined up in front of a costly looking inn. When a Swedish voice rose in reprimand he pulled on the reins sharply and his horse reared back at the unexpected gesture, shaking its head with a high-pitch neigh as its front hooves struck at the empty air. Lukas had to lean forward to keep himself from falling off the saddle and when an iron grip ripped the reins from his fingers his hands rushed to clutch at the horse's mane as the frightened animal was brought back forcefully to the ground. Breathing hard, Lukas raised his head and looked around him. The Swedes had him surrounded from all sides, their hands on their weapons and their faces heavy with mistrust, and Lukas shook his head and lifted his arms appeasingly.
"So this is how it's going to be," he muttered under his breath and let himself slip from the saddle once the soldiers drew back to allow him the space.
The large building in front of him was bustling with activity, both on the outside and on the inside, and a middle-aged officer separated himself from a gathering of equally tall, equally blonde men who had been watching with interest as the incident unfolded.
"Lord Bondevik?" he asked. Lukas nodded. "Please follow me."
They went up a flight of stairs and crossed a long corridor to a more secluded part of the inn, and when they finally stopped the man removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, handing Lukas the key afterwards. "There is a warm bath waiting for you, my Lord, and a meal can be brought to your room should you wish so."
Lukas had not eaten a morsel since morning but felt no desire for nourishment. "That will not be necessary," he informed the man and pushed the door open, finding himself in a lavishly furnished room. The rug under his feet was soft and pleasantly colored in hues of blue and green and the same tones were shared with the elegant wallpaper. In front of him stood a large bed with woodwork carved in intricate patterns and a fresh change of clothes was waiting on the woven bedspread which, judging by the size and cut, had been left there for his own use. The bed was flanked by a polished desk under the open window and another open door revealed white tiles and part of a large bathtub. The room appeared already lived in. Several stacks of papers laid on the desk in a neat row, a well-worn leather trunk stood in a corner and what looked like pieces of Berwald's uniform hung from some hooks in the wall. Lukas gritted his teeth. He was not going to have a room of his own, it was plain to see.
"Subtle, Berwald, very subtle," he muttered. He drew his fingers through his long strands of hair, at a loss of what to do, and all of a sudden he understood what he needed if he wanted to pull the night through. He stepped back out, slamming the door shut behind him and retraced his steps to the common room, pushing his way to the wooden counter behind which several promising bottles glistened and a large barrel stood tall. The innkeeper greeted him with a warm smile.
"What can I do for you, sir?" she asked.
"I need something to drink," Lukas breathed.
"Certainly sir, would you like some beer?"
Lukas remembered the stale smell of beer that had lingered on Matthias' breath and his stomach churned.
"No, not beer." His eyes searched the shelves and paused upon a bottle filled with a clear liquid. Vodka. It would do nicely.
"I will take that," he pointed, and the innkeeper nodded, reaching for a small glass. Lukas stopped her. "You did not understand, I want the whole bottle."
He shrugged off her disparaging stare as he counted the kroner. He knew that although his life spanned more centuries than he wished to remember he looked young, very young, barely in his twenties and the otherwise kind woman was mistaking him for some depraved youth, but he felt too numb to bring himself to care about any mortal's opinion.
Carrying his purchase carefully in one hand he returned to his room and as he pulled the door closed behind him the thought of locking it crossed his mind, though he knew it would prove pointless. Surely Berwald owned a key of his own and was strong enough to break down any door should the need arise.
Letting himself slip to the floor, Lukas leaned with his back against the bed and swallowed the first mouthful of the burning liquid.
It was already very late in the evening when Berwald was freed at last from the day's proceedings. Such gatherings aggravated him to no end, for it was no easy task to keep even a handful of nations in check when they congregated in the same space, with their personal share of ancient grudges to nurture. Even the Swede had been on more than one occasion on the verge of sending Matthias back to Copenhagen with a black eye and possibly some broken ribs, more so once the Dane had made himself scarce only to return not long after in a mood even more foul than before. Berwald sighed. He was grateful that Lukas at least had seemed tame, for he knew better than most nations that behind his empty mask the Norwegian was harboring a world of testiness and sharp words and easily stirred ire, and all things considered, between all of them Lukas had been the most likely to blow up.
Berwald could have asked for a horse but he chose to walk, the crisp night air too enticing after a sweltering day of heated arguments. His thoughts were swarming with doubt and knowing that Lukas was waiting in their room put him in no hurry to get back, as for the first time ever he had been uneasy around the smaller Nordic and thus had come to question the wisdom of taking Lukas in. After surrendering Finland to the Russian Empire he had raged for months on end and had watched the Dane and his little family with envy, coveting it for his own. No, in truth he needed Tino back, his life empty without the light of lavender eyes and soft, kind laughter, but he knew that it could not be accomplished, at least not yet. Ivan was still too strong a foe. So in his loneliness he had set his eyes on Lukas and when the chance to take Norway arose against all odds he had urged his king to go through. And yet, now that the fate of the Norwegian was in his hands, Berwald faltered. He had known that Matthias would rage and fight and had expected nothing less from the Dane, but he had never foreseen that Lukas would rebel against them both and begin his own doomed crusade to regain his long-lost freedom.
Painfully aware that everything he would say and do that night would set the pace for whatever life he hoped that the two of them might share in the future, Berwald paused in front of his door and stared at the dark surface, but the polished wood held none of the answers he so direly needed and, careful not to startle Lukas, he knocked two times and pushed the door open.
An overwhelming smell of alcohol filled his nostrils and his teeth clenched when he saw the Norwegian gazing out the window, still wearing his road-frayed clothes, with his back ramrod straight and a half-finished bottle in his hand. By the looks of it, Lukas had chosen his poison well. Vodka. Berwald abhorred the vile drink ever since Tino had been taken from him and he had smashed all the bottles still left in his house during one night of madness, for they were nothing but a reminder of the Finn's sole vice, and one that happened to be shared with the greedy Russian.
Berwald closed the door slowly behind him and took a careful step towards the motionless Norwegian.
"Lukas, why..." The cornered and yet defiant look that Lukas threw back at him was enough to make him understand. "Do you find the thought of being with me so hard that you needed to numb yourself in such a vile way?"
A short laugh escaped the smaller nation's lips. "Hard? Hard, you say? Try unbearable, and even then it would not even begin to describe one tenth of what I feel right now."
Whether it was the nauseating smell of the loathed drink, Lukas' scorn, his own hurt pride or all of them together, Berwald did not know, but he felt his patience snap only to be replaced by a burning wrath he could not quite control. He strode forward and backhanded Lukas sharply against the side of his head where golden strands of hair were held back by a cross-shaped pin to reveal white, porcelain skin and a dark bruise spread into shape, overtaking the ivory expanse. The blow had been strong enough to send him reeling to the floor and Lukas barely managed to catch himself against the desk. With careful movements he placed the bottle on the hard surface and closed his eyes against the madly spinning world. The unexpected strike had made him sink his teeth deep on the inside of his cheek and his tongue encountered a coppery tang as he drew it along the throbbing mark. He coughed at the taste and spat a mouthful of blood in his hand and, closing his fingers around the crimson stain, he looked up to meet Berwald's eyes with his own unwavering gaze.
"Just do what you must," he hissed and his voice fell like freezing water on the burning embers of the Swede's rage, quenching it to a cold determination.
There was no more room left in Berwald's mind for patience and gentleness. The fabric of the Norwegian's shirt ripped under his fingers as he tugged impatiently at the buttons and he threw the ruined garment mindlessly away, taking a step back to allow his eyes to linger on the other man's skin. Back in their early Viking days, when the Finn had yet to step into his life and only the Norwegian and the Dane were at his side to share their immortality together, Lukas would sometimes call him to his bed, driven by loneliness when distance kept him apart from the Dane or by revenge when angry words parted him from his erstwhile lover. Berwald had always taken pleasure in the Norwegian's body, lithe and slender and yet strengthened by countless decades of warfare, but in retrospect all closeness they had shared had only been for the Dane or about the Dane and never for the Swede's own sake. His eyes found the ancient scar he had so much enjoyed to trace as they laid next to each other, their bodies lazy in the afterglow of their high. The angry, puckered mark carved in the Norwegian's flesh by an enemy sword aiming for the kill had faded with the passage of time but a final remnant still endured, stretched in a thin, white line that shone palely across the other man's midriff. It had been Berwald's blade, not the Dane's that had plunged upon the enemy's neck that one time, robbing him of strength and sparing Lukas from an agonizing death, and a wave of possessiveness overpowered the Swede as he remembered that Lukas' eyes had been equally filled with pain and awe when they found his own while the lifeless body was sinking down between them. He drew the Norwegian flush against his chest and fisted his fingers in Lukas' hair, pulling harshly at the silken strands until Lukas tilted his head back and the cold, impenetrable look in his veiled eyes pierced Berwald to his very core.
The Swede could not bring himself to bear the emptiness in that indigo gaze. Lukas was pliant like a doll under the strength of his hands as Berwald spun him around and dragged him to the bed to throw him face down on the smooth surface and he lay frozen as the Swede divested him of his last shreds of clothing and of dignity. Berwald gritted his teeth and unbuckled his own trousers. The white body in front of him felt both strange and familiar as he climbed on top of it, straddling the narrow hips with his knees. His hand followed softly the delicate line of Lukas' spine and the smaller man shuddered beneath him, while Berwald wondered idly whether it was in pleasure or revulsion. Tino had always relished in the feeling of his lover's lips drawing a steady path along the velvety plane of his back, and as Berwald's sight clouded at the memory Lukas' platinum strands shifted to honeyed, tousled locks and the sharp angles of his body mellowed into the Finn's soft, almost feminine contours.
Berwald blinked and shook his head to dispel the illusion. He had to end it now or else allow the last sliver of control he was left over his sanity to slip away. He grasped the Norwegian's hands and forced them together against the mattress, high above the smaller nation's head, and as his fingers dug deep in the pale flesh a chain of angry bruises flourished around Lukas' slim wrists, but the Swede was beyond caring. He pushed his way inside the other man's unprepared body, gaining nothing but a sharp intake of breath from the inert Norwegian, but as he thrust in and out of the tight warmth Lukas' fingers clutched at the sheets until his knuckles grew white.
When Berwald finally came a hoarse scream escaped his throat and light exploded under his eyelids and as he let himself collapse against the Norwegian, his overwhelmed senses barely made out the choked cry that shadowed his own like a twisted echo. Lukas was breathing heavily beneath him and Berwald's hand fell down to caress the smaller man's side slowly, instinctively, again and again, until the tip of his fingers reached liquid warmth and for a long moment the Swede could do nothing but stare in disbelief at the crimson mark staining his skin. He slipped off the Norwegian's body to sit down on the edge of the bed and with trembling hands, almost afraid of what he would reveal, he turned the other man face up.
Tendrils of thick blood ran freely across Lukas' skin from a long gash cut deep in the flesh above his heart and as his chest was rising and falling in convulsive breaths the dark rivulets came apart and coiled and overlapped their paths in a grisly net. Berwald searched frantically around him and when his eyes fell on Lukas' torn shirt he seized it and pushed it hard against the wound. The fingers of his free hand faltered above Lukas' eyes, wide open yet unseeing, their indigo but a thin line around dark pupils blown with pain, and settled on the livid brow to brush away a stray, sweat-drenched strand of hair.
Blood was still seeping through the makeshift bandage when Lukas' breath fell into a steady rhythm and his eyelids shifted and under Berwald's entranced gaze flawless indigo emerged from behind the ebbing circle of black.
Feeble fingers rose to push Berwald's arm away but the Swede held fast and looked at the other man sternly. "I'm only trying to help you."
"I think you've done quite enough," Lukas replied weakly through clenched teeth and the Swede snatched his hand away as if scalded.
Stumbling steps carried Lukas across the room and once his feet reached white marble tiles he slammed the door behind him and leaned against it to appease the agonizing throb across his flesh. One hand still grasped the blood-drenched shirt to his chest and when Lukas let go it fell to the floor with a sickening splatter.
The tang of blood was drifting thickly through the air and Lukas clang to the familiar sensation as his mind succumbed to the haze of pain. He had never given much thought before to the coppery scent that had shadowed him unerringly, day after day for as long as he could remember, on his hands, on his sword, on the countless corpses he had left in his wake, on Matthias' lips when teeth would break through skin to mark each other's bodies as their own. Plenty of blood to drown in it thrice over, and yet never enough to cleanse his soul.
His clouded gaze caught his own reflection, pale and swaying like a faraway ghost, and the Norwegian staggered closer and pressed his palm for support against the cold surface. Rusty tendrils still ran hot along his chest and Lukas wondered in detached fascination if the gaping gash was deep enough for his fingertips to plunge through and reach his beating heart.
His body was yearning for the soothing touch of water, clean and pure against his defiled skin, and Lukas moved to lean against the porcelain rim of the tub. The liquid surface lay still, a fluid expanse of unblemished transparency, and when the Norwegian's closed fist smashed it heavily, bitterly into dozens of ripples, the swerving circles clashed against his wrist until they slowly returned to their initial tranquility and nothing but a thin veil of blood dissipating from around his clenched fingers stood witness to the intrusion. Lukas shuddered and, moving his hand in a flurry of droplets, he grasped the slippery rim and heaved his body slowly to sink into the lukewarm water. As a fresh stream pooled out of his tortured flesh he settled back and watched it stain the clear liquid crimson, with the carelessness of one who never dies forever.